Bitter as Tears
by Wayward Magyar
Summary: Annie Cresta, against all odds, won the 70th Hunger Games. But for every victor, there are 23 losers who were sacrificed in the process. The story of the 70th Hunger Games as told by a District 10 tribute.
1. To Be Reaped

The overflowing bucket of warm, soapy water splashed across my boots and the dusty wood floor that morning. The sun had yet to show itself, leaving me with the old, flickery barn lights, a lantern, my water, and the cows.

Usually, I would accompany my brothers to the slaughter house around noon, but today was different. The reaping was taking place, and I wasn't exactly looking forward to it. Drops of water clung to my flannel shirt as I passed through the mist once again to shut the barn doors in an attempt to block out the early morning air.

I pulled up the cracked stool from beside one of the stalls and entered to see one of our many cows peacefully awakening. She seemed surprised to be tied to one of the posts in her stall and began to turn her head fiercely, trying to break free of the ropes. I tried to calm her down with some difficulty and sat to do my work.

I hated milking the cows, but at least it took my mind off the reaping for a little while. I was more focused on keeping the ornery cow from knocking the bucket full of milk all over me.

Once we finished, I picked the bucket up, filled her feedbox, and left. By that time, the sun was finally showing itself and the mist had mostly dissipated.

Our house isn't the worst on the street, I suppose. It was originally painted red, but the color faded and dulled away with time, beginning to chip and reveal the brown splinters below. The floor of our porch is broken in some spots, so we tend to make a quick, light-footed path to the door to avoid any more collapsing beneath our feet.

The inside is much more pleasant. The walls are painted the same dark red as the actual house, there are couches surrounding a fire place and a TV has been pulled front and center for the impending games to be aired on TV starting tonight. A flight of stairs lies behind a wall and leads to all of our bed rooms. It's a fairly large house.

I turn past the stairs and instead amble for the kitchen, where my mother is trying to make bacon. We can't have bacon much, usually we sell it to the Peacekeepers or it is delivered to the Capitol itself, but Mom tries to make Reaping day as painless as possible for us.

"Good morning, Carora." Her husky voice calms me down somewhat. Years of working combined with her frail health has made her sound and look older than she really is. She used to have beautiful dark brown, glossy hair, but that's changed to a greasier, grayer variation. She still remains beautiful to my father though, and to the rest of my family as well.

"Morning, Mom." I began to shuffle my feet awkwardly, not sure exactly what to say to her. I was always like this on reaping day, short for words or anything to say in general, really.

"Why don't you go upstairs and see if your brothers are done with their baths, hm?" She looked up from the pan of sizzling bacon for a moment, no smile adorning her face, and nodded her head at the stairs.

The upstairs was still kind of nice. The paint was chipping up here though, and the furniture looked a lot worse, but nobody should be coming up here who isn't family. I could hear my brothers laughing in our room and opened the white door to meet their smiling faces.

Devon and Angus were twins, which was pretty cool. I admit I was jealous of their so-called 'telepathic abilities' and how popular they were with the other girls at school, but I was still happy for them. They were my brothers, after all.

Mother had them outfitted in clean pairs of jeans and white shirts with plaid jackets. Again, not the fanciest thing to wear to a reaping, but it was the norm for this district of farmers. The two looked up to meet me with their brown eyes, still smiling.

Devon smoothed back his still-damp red-brown hair. "How's the milking going, big sister? Did Bess-Bess kick you in the stomach again?" I scoffed and rolled my eyes, kicking my boots at his head as he narrowly avoided them.

"I'm not in the mood for it, twerp. Mom wants to know if you two are done bathing." And in the usual way the two spoke telepathically, Angus was now going to finish the conversation.

"Our hair's wet, idn't it?"

Problem solved.

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I bathed quickly, dipping into water colder than ice. My brothers had again used all the hot water we had, and I was much too lazy to go downstairs and have it heated on the stove. I cleaned my brown hair and rubbed the dried mud from my legs, feet, arms. It felt nice to have some time to bathe without having to run back outside for more work.

I shooed the boys from our room and hopped over to my bed, where my mother had laid out a white sundress and white sandals, complete with little girly straps adorned with plastic flowers. I smiled once I saw the reaping dress again, the one I wore almost every year. The reaping would start, I would be nervous, the reaping would end, and I would return home to have some bacon before doing any extra chores around the house. It was still a working day, after all.

As I exited the room I noticed my father starting his way down the stairs. His red beard was graying with age, he had wrinkles around his eyes, and looked like a homeless person, to put it nicely. He was a strict man though, despite not caring about his appearance. It was the money that counted, not the looks. His philosophy was the reason the porch wasn't repaired and the walls weren't painted.

Everyone met just off the porch near the road. The bacon was set on the counter to cool off, and everyone had managed to look at least somewhat presentable for the reaping, all except my Dad that is. The other families in this section of District 10 – only about seven families – are already starting the walk to the town center and justice building. Without a word, we began to follow.

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District 10 is a rural place, as we've been taught by our parents and teachers, and as such, there aren't very many inhabitants. After all, we can't have many houses simply because our farms could be too big. The district is divided into sections – dairy, meat, leisure, etc. My family has a dairy and meat farm, hence our many cows, chickens, and pigs, while the Mayor's family runs a leisure farm, where they breed horses for the Capitol to use for chariots and such.

My parents bid us good bye, knowing that they will likely see us again in a little bit, and we head off into the roped areas, where other children are clumped together like confused cattle. My brothers split into the "13" ring, and I turn for the "15".

I know everybody in the ring already. When my first reaping came around, there weren't many twelve year olds. Now the fifteen ring was the ring with less children. We exchanged hellos and I talked to my very first friend here, Nann Hackles. She breeds horses for the Chariot races and was gleefully telling me about how this year's district ten horses were the ones she'd bred since birth. She was obviously very proud. The furthest my animals had been into the Capitol were the dining rooms of Capitol citizens or Hunger Games tributes, where they were promptly eaten.

Whiel she was rambling on about her beloved 'Camille' the microphone on stage was tapped onto and filled the square with a loud, blunt noise. We all looked up at our escort, an older man by the name of Hundy. Hundy dressed like some sort of rainbow butler, with a suit that this year was bathed in a bright blue and green corkscrew curls, as well as the ridiculously curled handlebar mustache that was painted the same color.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of District 10." He retrieved a handkerchief from his coat pocket and coughed into it. His Capitol accent made him sound very stuffy, almost like his sides were being squeezed so tightly that his voice sounded strangled.

"70 years ago, the thirteen districts of Panem rose up against it's very foundation, the Capitol." He droned on for a good ten minutes, stop every few sentences to cough or sneeze into the white handkerchief he kept with him every year. It made me want to spoon a couple barrels of my Mom's soup into his mouth, the kind that always cleared our throats and noses so we could work

Finally, he gestured to the two glass balls in front of him. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, this year's tributes."

His eyes flickered ebtween the two, like a quiet game of deciding who would be picked first, and settled on the boys jar. He reached one hand in, sifting through papers before deciding on one in particular. Clearing his throat, he read in a stiff voice.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, your district ten male tribute will be a certain 'Clyde Ramses'."

Clyde Ramses practically jumped out of the crowd. He was seventeen, with spiked blonde hair and wide green eyes. He was frightened, obviously, as he made his way to the stage. Nobody moved to volunteer, but I could hear the sobs of an old woman in the crowd of adults and parents. His grandmother was all Clyde had.

Next, our escort turned to the jar of female names. Reaching his hand in, he scooped up at least fourteen names before carefully seperating them in his two hands over and over again. Seven in one, seven in the other, one hand is thrown back in. Three in one hand, four in the other, one is thrown away. Two and two, and finally one and one. By now each girl is leaning forward with a collectively held breath, waiting for the news.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, your district ten female tribute will be...um, Miss Carora Augustus."

Before I knew what was happening, I was pushed from the ring and stood in the narrow aisle between the fifteen year olds and the fourteen year olds.

"Ahem, Carora Augustus. Don't be shy, young lady, this is a wonderful opportunity. Just imagine the friends you will make, the battles to win, the blood to shed, the-" He stops when one of the Peacekeeps intervenes.

The man in the visor looks down at me, the girl in the aisle, Carora Augustus. He gestures at me with his nightstick, beckoning me up to the stage.

All I could do was cry.


	2. An Axe to Bind

I had my feet shuffling toward the stage, my head down turned, trying not to whimper and embarrass myself anymore than I already had. I staggered up the few stairs to reach the platform and stood motionless next to our escort, who wrapped his long, spindly arm around my shoulders.

"Now now, Miss Augustus, don't be frightened! This is the true bravery, dear, coming on stage, isn't that right, folks?"

Nobody in the crowd. I can hear the patches of grass rippling and flowing in the gentle breeze and take a deep breath through my nose, ignoring the feeling of mucus welling up in my head.

"Wait, stop, stop!" Someone's voice penetrates the silence and I turn to the male's ring, where a young man is running from his roped off quarter. I recognized the boy almost instantly – red-brown hair, determined brown eyes, faint, spacey freckles.

"Angus..." I whispered, collapsing onto one knee. My brother was quick to jump on stage and envelop me in a hug despite his friend's eyes. He didn't care, I realized, it was a good gesture.

"I want to volunteer," He said clearly, turning his head to face our escort with what I assumed was that stony gaze. "I want to volunteer for Carora Augustus."

"I'm sorry young man, but I'm afraid that we've already chosen our male tribute, and unfortunately, you are not eligible to volunteer for our female spot-"

"I don't care about your _spots_!" He jumped up and jabbed the old Capitol man in the chest with his pointer finger. Three peacekeepers are hurrying back onto the stage and the audience watches, visibly astonished by what is happening. In all of District 10 history, perhaps Panem history, nobody has exhibited this much protest without being shot on sight.

"I'm volunteering, for God's sake! Who cares if I'm a boy? The Capitol just wants blood, so why not mine?" I turn to see a peacekeeper readying a long syringe pumped full of plum-colored liquid. My voice is broken and I reach out to grab Angus' plaid sleeve in an attempt to shut him up, but he shook my hand away.

He continues, but not for long. A peacekeeper shoves between the small space between us, effectively knocking me onto my side. I look up just in time to hear his final words.

It doesn't matter – it's never mattered! Let me volunteer, you a-!" The peacekeeper who shoved me away jams the needle between his shoulder blades. The area ripples visibly under the jacket and he begins to slump forward. Another peacekeeper calmly moves Hundy away from my little brother, who descended to the platform until it met his face and body with a sharp thump.

My mother screams and I can see her flailing around like a chicken with a head while my father attempts to restrain her. Another peacekeeper hurries back to amend the problem quickly, and suddenly all eyes are trained back on me and my new partner.

Hundy clears his throat and gestures to both Clyde and I, making a shrugging motion.

"...Your 70th Hunger Games tributes, District 10."

A horse in the distance wickers as the crowd begins to disperse. Two peacekeepers calmly lift my brother, still lying face down on the stage, and transport him toward the justice building. Another two take both my and Clyde's arms and lead us to the large building as well.

Our justice building is certainly not the most beautiful, I imagine. It's plain brown wood, splintering near the dark roof. There's a fence that holds a few stray horses in the rear, and they use the manure for fertilization purposes. The inside has fluffy, plush carpeting, somewhat encrusted in dirt and mud due to the stable hands who work the horses and can't leap the fence.

They split Clyde and I up and led me into a rather small room. A fluffed, plump couch sat against the wall just under a painting of President Snow, a man I used to be honored to send my food to. I once called him 'Mr. President', 'Sir', but now I favored to call him 'bastard'.

The peacekeeper sat me down on the couch and deposited Angus next to me. He was starting to curl his fingers, luckily, meaning that purple mixture hadn't caused anything permanent, I hoped.

"That was real brave of you, Angus." I said quietly, stroking his back softly. I imagined the area was still tender from the shot from that rather large needle, and Angus didn't seem to mind the petting.

"I don't want you to go." His voice was tense, the sound of someone on the verge of tears. I couldn't feel any tears, but my mouth instinctively curled into a sad smile.

"I don't want to go either. But someone has to, and...who's better than your big sister?" Angus groggily opened his eyes, crust dotting just around them as though he'd been asleep for ages.

"Anyone else."

Still cracking jokes, at least.

A few minutes later the rest of my family came bustling in. My mother was cranking down on tissues, sobbing and releasing all the tears she kept bottled up the past few years.

"My babies!" She would say every few minutes, blowing her nose into a tissue and curling herself around Angus or I. "My poor babies!"

Meanwhile, Dad was giving me help. He spoke strong, bold, confident. "You can win, Carora. It's a matter of what you do, and how you do it. I can't think of any young lady who can beat my little you can get your hands on an axe, you will be unbeatable."

I remembered the days when I would follow my father out and we would do the execution of innocent farm animals, usually around this time of year. At first I was shocked and found myself emptying my stomach, but with each passing slaughter I became used to it. The animals had to die so we could eat, simply. Eventually I got my turn on the axe, and now I traded off with my brothers, who were of stronger stomach than I was at their ages.

Devon didn't speak, just looked at his brother and occasionally to me, giving off a very solitary vibe. The telepathy, I sighed, that was likely what he was doing. Devon, the one with the words. Devon, the brother who always had to put in his two cents...couldn't speak his mind. In any other circumstance, I may have enjoyed it.

After a few minutes of this, the Peacekeepers escorted everyone out. They eased Angus onto his wobbling legs until my Dad resorted to carrying him piggy-back, and everyone gave a passing glance at me. And the doors shut.

My only other friend, Nann, came in. Instead of sharing more stories about her beloved horses, she ran at me and tackled me into the sofa, leaving tears running down my neck and beading into my hair.

"I never thought it would be one of _my _friends I would be meeting here." She breathed, squeezing me closer, "Promise me you'll ride out on the chariot my Camille is pulling. Promise me you will score high. Promise me you'll win." I nod shakily, feeling my tear ducts renewing all of a sudden.

"Good. It will be an honor to serve you the finest from our farm when you come home. We can arrange meetings once you live in the Victor's Village...ride horses all day and eat that delicious farm food you harvest after, right?"

I nod again and hug her tighter. "I'll do whatever it takes. With an axe, I can't be beat." Nann looks at me with sad eyes as the doors swing open. She removes her self from the couch and escorts herself away, wiping at her eyes.

"Slaughter everything, 'Rora."

Clyde and I partook in dinner. Supposedly my parents went to meet him, but his parents hadn't visited me. I felt a bit upset, but nevertheless remained calm. Our mentor was thirty-one year old Kion Maise, a very quiet man.

Kion won his games through pure luck. They were held on an island in the middle of an ocean, where many people ended up just drowning over night. He sat on top of a palm tree until the last tribute was drowned. It didn't exactly give me any hope for winning, being that he won so easily, but I welcomed him as our mentor.

Finally, we sat and watched the reaping. Nothing too special – same as every year. The Careers were overly dramatic, attempting to give long winded speeches about coming back champions. Young kids cried, older kids looked furious, and all in between.

Except for one.

This girl, from Career District 4, she was different. She was reaped and no one volunteered. Perhaps they hated her or something, I wasn't sure. She had silky black hair and tan skin, just as a District 4 fisher should, and a soft face. She was beautiful. I swore I heard Kion give an involuntary whistle when her number came up.

The reaping broadcast ended and Hundy turned to us, patting Clyde and my shoulders.

"Big day, children! We'll arrive in the Capitol tomorrow, most likely, so get plenty of rest for it!"

I lie in bed, clutching the blankets just under my eyes. The quaking of the train didn't ease my nerves as I finally realized I was going to the Capitol.

The realization that I, Carora Augustus, was royally screwed.


End file.
